


The Quartering Act

by Aminias



Category: Casino Royale (2006), James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond (Movies), James Bond - All Media Types, James Bond - Ian Fleming, Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Serial Killers, Anarchy, F/F, F/M, Fluff, Gen, Let's Play a Game, Like Dinner And A Show, Love At First Smite, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Multi, Murder, Murder and Romance, Other, Peek-a-boo, Revolution, Revolutionaries In Love, Serial Killers, Some Mr. Robot type shit going down, Spies, What's love without death?, hitman - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-03
Updated: 2016-09-03
Packaged: 2018-08-12 18:01:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7943977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aminias/pseuds/Aminias
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His fingers twitch around the handle of his ill-gotten weapon.<br/>The knife clatters to the pavement.<br/>Blood rests on his tongue, a swift corrosion eating away at coherence.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Quartering Act

**Author's Note:**

> For KJ

The first time is an accident, a cheap thrill.

He stands perplexed.

Fixated like a statue to the monument of this crime.

Q blinks a drowning man coming up for air.

His fingers twitch around the handle of his ill-gotten weapon.

The knife clatters to the pavement.

Blood rests on his tongue, a swift corrosion eating away at coherence.

A different high, more like a new low.

Q cannot escape the essence of iron resting like shards of splintered wood in his throat.

The other feeling is gone now. His hand tremors.

The taste of blood lingers like earl gray after a long sip in his mouth.

He is still seeing red.  Specks of DNA are trapped on his glasses, bugs in a spider’s web.

Evidence to the event that has just transpired.

Annoying too.

Q carefully maneuvers the glasses off his face. He attempts to clean the surface.

His hands tremble slightly with each swipe of the cloth.

It takes him two tries.

He stares into the lenses idly for a moment seeking further imperfections to wipe off.

The face reflected in the glass is not his own.

He blinks and looks away. He places the glasses back on his face.

His eyes catch again on the knife discarded on the ground.

The knife, which suffers from much the same fate as the rest of him, the steel shining weakly under flakes of rust brown.

He picks it up.

Q remembers how the blade looked glistening a bright silver against the backdrop of an inky morning. His attacker's drab clothing offers little protection against the sharp blade.

It was a small matter with his training to take the thing from the figure now on the ground looking like a bad excuse for medium rare steak.

Not much of a struggle when from the looks of it the meat came tenderized.

He once read to allow for the survival of the plant a few limbs needed to be trimmed off.

That’s all he’s doing trimming the garden of the world.

Weeding out the weak giving allotment to the strong.

All in a day's business.

The man is not lying prone. No, he’s twisted, warped like a tree growing up against the fence of society.

And Q?

Q has set him free.

He bends down to search the man's pockets.

Snags the wallet.

Casually he rights himself.

Adjusts the bag at his shoulder.

Footsteps sound from the front of the alley.

He jumps, startled and freezes tucking the knife behind his back like a sheepish schoolboy.

_Because standing in front of a corpse and trying to hide it is going to make him less guilty looking._

Q’s hearts stutters a beat.

His palms grow clammy.

Quaking. He clasps them together.

Frame tense as a spring.

The footsteps recede.

Q learns to breathe again and relaxes his shoulders.

Adjusts the strap of his bag one more time.

Tucks the knife away and leaves. (He does not look back)

Later at the coffee shop, two cold mugs lay empty on the table.

It's been a long day and it’s hardly noon yet.  He carefully brings a third glass to his lips blowing over the liquid to cool it as he glances around.

He sees a flash of movement out the corner of his eye.

Something is moving outside!

He nearly dumps the steaming cup into his lap.

When he turns, nothing is there.

_Jumping at shadows Q, that's all next thing you know you’ll be trying to kick the hardware in a computer._

The barista's arrival quickly obscures whatever he might have seen.

They both share an easy smile, one that doesn’t reach either of their eyes.

She hands over his copy of the receipt folded in half.

Q barely conceals a frown, puzzling over the folded paper, it can’t be a phone number, and they’ve hardly looked at each other.

He glances up at the girl.

“Who’s this from?”  He demands.

The barista merely shrugs, gives him another smile weak as Starbucks beverages.

_Well then._

He searches the exterior of the note for any other clue fingers drumming the table.

"Excuse me?” He asks.

No answer.

Q brings his gaze from the note to the now empty space by him.

Apparently, the barista had left while he was examining the receipt and is nowhere in sight.

The silence in the previously busy shop is deafening. The clanging of pots, mugs and the sound of orders being made has stopped completely.

Suddenly the table in front of him tilts!

He leaps up, throwing the chair back on its feet.

It’s when Q grabs the tea to keep it from spilling that he realizes it's his own leg jostling the rickety thing.

_Jesus._

Q tugs at his curls; he’s ruffled but unwilling to admit it.

The receipt weighs heavy in his hands.

Curiosity takes hold of him while dread gleefully tries to upset his stomach.

Suddenly all the tea he’s consumed feels like it’s ready to stage a revolt that will rival the French Revolution.

He unfolds the paper.

 


End file.
